


Couch to 5K

by redtoes



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8691124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: Felicity Smoak never wanted to leave the couch, but Curtis just kept insisting that exercise is good for the heart, and her poor broken heart (frakking Cooper) really could do with the workout. Or, How Felicity learned to not hate running.





	1. Chapter 1

"You can't just sit here," Curtis says, gesturing at the couch, the empty wine bottles, the half eaten containers of take out and the growing mountain of balled up used tissues. "This is somewhere the Felicity I know would never go."

"Then maybe you don't know me that well," she snaps and immediately regrets it. Curtis is her best friend, her rock, her technobabble buddy. He doesn't deserve her anger. 

No all her anger should go to Cooper. 

Frakking Cooper. 

Curtis raised an eyebrow. 

"Frakking?"

"It's not like you don't know the reference," she says. "We watched that show together."

"Yes we did," he replies. "On this very couch," he wrinkles his nose, "but it was cleaner then."

"I got dumped Curtis!" Felicity growls, "I am allowed to put personal hygiene aside for a while!"

"You are really not," Curtis said, "I want my Felicity back. Paul wants my Felicity back. The whole population of R&D want my Felicity back."

"Since when am I yours?"

"Since you introduced yourself on your first day and promised me eternal servitude if I would show you where the coffee was. True friendship at first sight."

Felicity grumbles but she doesn't disagree. 

"It's been a month," Curtis says, sitting down on the arm of the couch. "A month of you being relentlessly incessantly disturbingly cheerful in the office and not leaving this couch at home. Tell me, honestly, have you actually moved from here since Friday night?"

"Yes," she replies. 

"Movement to collect take out from the delivery guy and to the bathroom doesn't count," Curtis says. 

"Then no," she says, "but it's only been a month Curtis, 27 days. You cannot expect me to be bright and sunny and happy again in 27 days."

"I'm not asking you to be happy," Curtis says, "I'm asking you to get off the couch. Come on, baby steps here. Step one - stand up."

She glares at him but even she can admit that a woman wrapped in a blanket and wearing the same pyjamas she put on on Friday night on Sunday morning doesn't have much of a death glare. 

"I should never have given you a key," she says. 

"It wasn't your brightest idea," he agrees. 

He's smiling at her and he's her best friend - her platonic work husband, with his own handsome husband to boot - she can't hate him. She wants to, but all her hatred is reserved for Cooper. 

Frakking Cooper. 

Curtis holds his hands out to her and wiggles his fingers. 

And somehow, with energy she didn't even know she had, she manages to get to her feet and take his hands. 

"So," she says, giving in to the six foot energiser bunny with an Afro that is him, "what are we doing today?"

Curtis grins. 

"Yoga."

Felicity groans, but allows him to usher her through to her bedroom and lay out the brightly coloured sports gear she would never have bought if he hadn't dragged her to the mall early in their acquaintance. 

Curtis is always trying to get her to join him in his fit and healthy ways. Paul gets a pass as he literally spends his days with patients and physiotherapy exercises, but Curtis seemingly decided long ago that Felicity needed some sort of aerobic activity in her life and had made it his life's mission to drag her to classes and games and courses - all in the name of finding *her* sport. Curtis is convinced everyone has a sport that they will love. They just need to find it. 

But then that's easy for him to say - he's a former Olympian. 

"We tried yoga," she says as he selects her outfit. "I fell over."

"This is hot yoga," he says. 

"So when I fall," she counters, "I will also burn."

He pauses considering. 

"I really don't think it gets that hot."

"But you don't know."

"No I don't," he says, "but we'll find out together."

She scowls and he grins. "C'mon Felicity," he asks her, "what if hot yoga is totally your sport?"

She grumbles, as she always does but she follows his instructions anyway. 

"And just think," he adds, "the couch will be waiting for you when you get back."

Felicity pulls on panties and a sports bra and then the lurid pink crop top and black leggings that Curtis selected. Then she hides her entire upper body under the biggest baggiest sweater she can find. 

Curtis can make her leave her apartment, he can even make her do hot yoga, whatever fresh hell that is, but she will not be budged on her rule that spandex is not outer wear. 

Curtis doesn't even do his usual grimace when he sees her clad in the sweater.

Instead he grins widely and it's only then that she realises exactly how far she might have gone off the edge. Curtis never misses a chance to judge her wardrobe. 

Never. 

"To the car!" Curtis announces and his enthusiasm is such she even manages a smile. "C'mon," he says, "I really do think hot yoga might be *your* sport!"

She scowls at the reminder that she's now required to exercise. 

"Endorphins are good for you," Curtis reminds her. 

"So is coffee," she replies.

"Not the way you drink it."

"It's not like I fill it with sugar," she says, "unlike some."

"Hey my morning gym routine means I get to enjoy the sweeter side of life," he says, "whereas mainlining caffeine like you do will likely lead to a heart attack."

She scowled at him as he closed the front door behind them, taking her further and further from the couch. 

"My heart is fine," she said. "Broken, but otherwise fine."

"A healthy heart is a happy heart," he says, "we will find the sport that makes your soul - and heart -happy, I promise you."

"I'm telling you," she said as she slumped into the passenger seat of his car, "it's not hot yoga."

"How do you know," he said, putting the car in drive, "if you haven't tried it?"


	2. Chapter 2

“You know you could always come back and work for Mom,” Thea says in a tone that was clearly meant to sound casual. She’s examining her fingernails while standing in Starling Gym’s wood panelled hallway in a show of nonchalance. 

“I don’t want to work for Mom,” Oliver replies. “I like working for me.”

“But you’re not working for you, are you Ollie?” Thea asks pointedly. “You’re working for lots of different people. And gyms.”

“I like the people,” Oliver says pointedly. 

“But not the gyms.”

“People go to gyms,” he says. “But that’s because they don’t know better and they want to be healthy.”

“Spare me, brother dearest,” Thea says, but her smile takes the sting out of the words, “yet another tale of how living in the woods changed your life.”

Oliver ignores her. 

“If you offer people a choice,” he says, “between an air conditioned rooms filled with sweat and space and clean air, they almost always choose the outside world.”

“It rains outside,” Thea points out. “Snows even.”

“Sometimes,” he allows, “but not all the time. And it’s summer currently.”

“Ugh humidity!” She says “I like air conditioning. It’s constant. Reassuring.”

“Constancy is boring,” he replies, but his heart isn’t in the fight. They’ve had it several times this week alone. Thea wants him back at the family business - though god knows why as when he was there she spent the entire time complaining about feeling trapped. 

“And yet I always find you here on Sunday mornings,” Thea says. 

“They have a shift for me on Sundays,” Oliver says, “I teach here.”

“How constant,” she comments. 

“It’s a job, Thea.”

“A job you don’t need.”

“A job I need enough to not want to get fired.”

He can see that Thea is about to let loose another witty retort, and while he loves his sister, he can do without this argument right now. So when the door to the hot yoga studio slams open and someone stumbles out he takes it as the lucky save it is and turns to see if he can help. 

She’s blonde and coughing, bent double and almost retching. 

“Hey,” he says, catching her when she lets go of the wall. “Hey, easy there.”

“Ugh,” she moans. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Oliver eyes the door to the studio behind her. 

“That’s not unusual,” he says. “That class… it does that to people.”

“I should’ve stayed on my couch,” she says, still doubled over. 

“Hey now,” he says, “come on.”

Slowly he walks her over to a nearby bench. 

He helps her sit and suddenly she leans back, lifting her head. 

She red-faced and sweaty, her glasses partly steamed up. Several strands of hair have come loose from her ponytail and her eyes are squeezed closed. 

“I am never doing that again,” she declares. “Never ever ever.”

“I felt the same after my first hot yoga class,” he says, crouching down in front of the bench. “I still went back the next week.”

“Then you,” she says, still not looking at him, “are a crazy person.”

He chuckles. She opens her eyes at the sound. 

“Oh,” she says. “Wow.”

“Wow?”

“You’re worth a wow,” she says. “Crazy hot person.” She colours suddenly. “Well, not wow,” she adds, suddenly stumbling over words, “more like oh my head, what pain.”

“You’re in pain?”

“Only because I’m still talking,” she says and lets her head fall back against the wall, eyes falling closed. “I can’t believe I’m still talking. Why do I never shut up? If I could shut up-”

“Felicity!”

A tall black man appears at her left. 

“I didn’t fall, Curtis,” the blonde - Felicity - says. 

“Are you sure?” He replies, “you don’t look well.”

“That’s because someone made me do frakking yoga in 100 degree heat.”

Curtis smiles ruefully. 

“At least you know it’s not your sport,” he says. 

“Curtis I really don’t think hot yoga is anyone’s sport.” She says. “Unless we’re talking about the kind of people that like pain. And humiliation.”

“I like hot yoga,” Oliver says before he thinks better. 

“Figures,” she says, eyeing him. “There had to be a flaw.”

“Excuse me?” He says. 

“Nobody’s that perfect,” she says. 

“Okay Felicity,” Curtis says, “thank the nice man for his help and we’ll be on our way.”

“Thank you nice man,” she says taking Curtis’ hand and letting him pull her to her feet. “Sorry for calling you crazy. And hot.”

Oliver blinks. He glances at Curtis and sees the man openly appraising him. 

“Well you’re not wrong about the hot,” Curtis says. 

“Married!” Felicity snaps at him. 

“Looking!” Curtis replies. 

Oliver just stares at them both. He feels utterly at a loss for how to respond. 

Felicity must notice his confusion. 

“Sorry,” she says them waves a hand at her face. “I have no filter. It gets me in trouble.”

“It does not,” Curtis objects. “We love you for it.”

“You love laughing at me,” she retorts. “And the crazy way my brain phrases things.”

“Well,” Curtis admits, “yes.”

“Look,” Oliver says feeling like this whole conversation has gotten away from him. “If you don’t like hot yoga there are lots of other classes here.”

“I don’t like hot yoga,” Felicity says in something not unlike a proclamation. 

“I wasn’t that keen either,” Curtis admits. 

“And when the Olympian says that…” Felicity says. 

Curtis sticks out his tongue at Felicity. 

“Right,” Oliver says trying to get the conversation back on track, “what sort of exercise do you like?”

“The kind where I don’t have to do it,” Felicity says. 

“She’s always like this,” Curtis complains, “I just know you have a little gym bunny in there waiting to get out.”

Oliver sees the same incredulous look on Felicity’s face that he imagines is on his own. Just, what?

Curtis takes in their expressions. 

“Yeah,” Curtis shifts on his feet, awkwardly, “I don’t know where that came from. Sorry.”

“I run a class,” Oliver says, not even sure why he’s pitching to them but wanting out of this strange conversation as soon as possible. “In the park. Fitness Without Gyms.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Curtis says, then narrows his eyes, “what’s your name?”

“Oliver,” he says. Curtis looks like he’s going to ask more questions so Oliver turns to Felicity. “You look like someone who might like it. The class I mean.”

“Why?” Felicity says, “what about almost dying in a hot yoga class says I’m up for burpees in the park?”

“No burpees,” he promises. “And, I don’t know.” Her skin is less flushed now, she’s breathing normally. He notices that she’s wearing brightly coloured nail varnish - at least two different shades - but the colour is chipped. It seems somehow out of character for her, though he has no idea why he thinks that. “Just a feeling I had, but hey, no pressure. Forget I said it.”

“She’ll be there,” Curtis says. 

“What?! No I won’t!” Felicity snaps.

“She will,” Curtis promises, “come on Felicity this could be _your_ sport.”

“Burpees in public with a hot trainer is not _my_ sport!” She half yells at him, then pauses and her face screws up in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“I’m not offended by you thinking I’m hot,” Oliver says. “I mean, I have heard it before.”

“No doubt,” she replies. “Sorry, I’m going to stop. I really am. In one, two, three…” she takes a deep breath and holds her hand out to him for a handshake. “Hi,” she says, “I’m Felicity Smoak.”

He takes her hand. 

“Oliver Queen.” 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, “but I’m not taking your class.”

“No problem,” he says, then realised he’s still holding her hand. He drops it. “No harm in asking, right?”

“No harm at all,” she says then turns to Curtis. “Can I have my sweater back now?”

Curtis holds out an old - huge - sweatshirt that is clearly too big for Felicity. It’s enormous, so much so that Oliver can’t quite believe he hadn’t noticed the other man holding it. 

Felicity pulls it over her head and the material immediately swamps her. She looks like a kid playing dress up. It’s adorable. 

“You,” she says pointing a finger at Curtis, “are driving me home. And you,” the finger moves to Oliver and she pauses, “well it was nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he says, “be sure to drink plenty of water today. You need to rehydrate.”

“Thanks,” she says and walks away.

Curtis lingers for a moment. 

“Which park is your class in?” 

“The Glades,” Oliver says, “Saturday morning. Beginners class is at 10am.”

Curtis nods. 

“Good to know.” He turns and heads after Felicity. 

Oliver watches them go.

“Well that was odd,” Thea says from behind him. “And frankly Ollie I’m disturbed at how little game you’re showing.”

“I wasn’t hitting on her,” he objects. 

“Professional game,” Thea clarifies. “Pitching your business.”

“He asked about the location,” Oliver says. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

Thea laughs.

“Oliver,” she says, “you are clearly never going to see those two again.”

Oliver glances down the hallway that Felicity and Curtis disappeared down.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says, “I have a good feeling about them.”


	3. Chapter 3

Monday morning dawns bright and early. Gorgeous sunshine streams through her windows giving everything in her bedroom a golden glow. She can hear birds tweeting outside. It is clearly going to be a beautiful day. 

“Ugh,” Felicity says and presses the pillow into her face. 

The alarm on her smartphone - plugged in to charge on the other side of the room in order to force her to actually get up - continues to bleat. Loudly. 

“Mondays,” she groans, “why is there always a Monday?”

She pushes herself up and reluctantly lifts the covers. 

“Because Curtis hasn’t invented a time machine yet,” she tells herself as she crosses the room. “When he does you can programme it to remove all Mondays.”

She flicks the snooze button on the screen and sighs. “Though would that mean Tuesdays become the new Monday,” she muses aloud. “And then I’d have to delete Tuesdays…it’d never end.”

Felicity catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. She looks…not bad. Her hair is a state, naturally, but her eyes aren’t puffy and red. She realises with a start that last night was the first night without tears for a while. 

She didn’t cry over Cooper yesterday. And, she realises, I even slept in my bed and not on the couch. 

Both things feel like huge accomplishments. 

Felicity gives the mirror a small smile. And then, as she likes the look of it, she grins.

For a while there she felt like she had forgotten how to grin. It feels nice. 

Then her smartphone buzzes - she has her work email set to download at the same time every morning - and she remembers she has to get going if she wants to beat the morning rush at Jitters. 

And so into the shower she goes. 

* * *

Iris spots her coming through the door and makes an elaborate hand gesture involving mining pulling the espresso machine handle and pointing. 

“What?” Felicity says, utterly flummoxed. 

Iris rolls her eyes.

“Sit down” she mouths and gestures at the queue. 

Obediently Felicity sits, though she immediate worries how long Iris will be - there’s a long queue of people waiting for coffee and Jitter’s machine - while it’s the best - isn’t fast. 

“Here,” someone says and Felicity looks up to see Barry holding a coffee cup out to her. “It’s for you.”

“Hey,” Felicity says, “and also, how?”

“I lost a bet with Iris,” Barry says, “she said you’d be here at 7:05 exactly, and I said that no one was that precise.”

Felicity checks her watch. It’s 7:06. 

“I’m not here at the same time every day,” she says, a little defensively, “sometimes I’m late. Or early.”

“Not according to Iris,” Barry says, “come on, I’ll walk you over.”

“It’s 7:06,” she says. 

“You got here at 7:05,” Barry replies. “And you know it.”

"Felicity grumbles a little, but accepts the latte. She’s not at her best before coffee and this whole conversation is odd. 

Iris waves from the counter as Felicity stands up, but it’s an enjoy your coffee wave not a come over here wave. 

Felicity looks at Iris, Barry and the coffee in turn. 

“What am I missing here?” She asks suspiciously. 

“Nothing,” Barry says, holding the door for her, “just a reminder that Iris knows all and should never be doubted.”

Felicity eyes Barry. He’s dressed in a shirt with a collar. It even looks like it’s been ironed. 

“I’m missing something,” she grumbles. 

“It’ll come to you,” Barry promises, “now tell me what the good projects are in R&D. I’m about to roll off of Wells’ Applied Sciences team and I feel like a change.”

* * *

Her day goes surprisingly well. The Jira tickets she’s assigned are a cut above the usual bug fixing tasks and she’s able to track down and fix the code snafu in the search algorithm that’s been bugging her for weeks. 

She’s having enough of a productive day that she actually lets Curtis talk her into lunch away from her desk - fixing that search bug deserves something more than a canteen cup of soup after all. 

“So hot yoga clearly wasn’t your thing,” Curtis says when they’ve grabbed a couple of seats at Big Belly Burger.

“Understatement of the year,” Felicity replies, but Curtis just keeps talking over her. 

“But what about the hot trainer?”

“What hot trainer?” She says, genuinely confused. 

“The Fitness Without Gyms guy,” Curtis says, “the one who rescued you.”

“He did not rescue me,” she says, “he helped me to a bench. That is not rescuing me.”

“Potato, potahto,” Curtis waves his hand. 

“No but seriously,” she insists, “that does not qualify as a rescue. A rescue requires like, actual heroism. A fraught situation at least.”

“You were unwell,” he says. 

“Because you dragged me to a stupid hot yoga class,” she replies. “Once I left the hot yoga class I was fine.”

“You mean once hot trainer Oliver rescued you.”

“It’s not like he swept in and saved me from a land mine, Curtis.”

Curtis eyes go slightly unfocused.

“That’s a really specific image,” he says, “do you think he’d be wearing a shirt during the sweeping?”

Felicity stares at him. 

“I’m changing the subject,” she announces, “Barry wants to know what the cool R&D projects are. Do you think is should try and get him for us?”

“God no,” Curtis says, “Barry is far too nice to be subjected to the horror that is our code base.”

“Hey!” Felicity says, mock offended, “I resent that. I spend quality time clearing out bugs so you engineering types can make the robots dance or whatever.”

“Or whatever?” Curtis says dryly, “do you ever listen to our project plans?”

“I clear the bugs,” Felicity says primly. “If it’s not on a ticket it doesn’t exist for me.”

Curtis snorts but is prevented from further comment by the arrival of their food. 

Felicity picks up her burger and takes a bite. 

Curtis unwraps the first of his five sliders and has devoured the whole thing before Felicity is finished chewing. 

“I don’t know how you can eat like that,” she says. 

“I exercise,” he replies, his mouth full. 

“Even with all the exercise,” she says, “I’m not sure that much grease can be processed.”

Curtis shrugs and eats a third slider. 

“Protein is good,” he says between bites. 

Felicity steals a fry from his plate. 

“But seriously Felicity,” Curtis says when he’s eaten all of his burgers and only fries remain. “I think we should go to his class.”

“Whose class?”

“Oliver the hot trainer’s class,” Curtis says, sounding exasperated. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Nope,” she grins. “And I already said no to burpees.”

“He promised no burpees.”

“Men will promise anything to get you where they want you,” Felicity said and abruptly felt tears pricking at her eyes. 

“Hey,” Curtis says, squeezing her arm. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” she says, “it’s just… Fracking Cooper.”

“Frak him,” Curtis says with feeling. “Fuck him even.”

“No, don’t,” Felicity says, “you wouldn’t know where he’d been.”

Curtis makes concerned face at her so makes a decided effort to buck up. 

“Enough of that,” she said, “how about them bears? Eh?”

“Yeah,” Curtis says, sympathetically, “them bears sure do good.”

* * *

Curtis doesn’t mention Oliver the hot trainer’s class again, so she assumes she’s escaped that one. Right up until her smartphone alarm goes off on Saturday morning.

“What?” She says blearily. “But, what? It’s Saturday?”

She stumbles out of bed and across the room. 

Her phone is not just beeping away - there’s also a message showing. 

BE DRESSED IN 10 MINS. I AM PICKING YOU UP FOR OLIVERS CLASS

“No way,” she mutters. She pressed the home button, but nothing happens. The phone alarm won’t shut off - it just keeps beeping. And the beeping seems to be getting louder. 

A second message appears. 

ALL YR PHONES BELONG TO UZ. 

“Frakking Curtis,” she swears. 

NO SRSLY. COME TO THE CLASS AND ILL MAKE YOUR PHONE WORK AGAIN

“I hate you,” she tells Curtis when he pulls up in his car. She thrusts the angrily beeping smartphone at him. “Fix this! It’s giving me a headache!”

“Are you coming to the class?”

“Yes, yes, yes. You won, alright? Now fix it already.”

“Get in,” Curtis says. He does something - she will figure out what if it kills her and get her own sweet revenge - and the smartphone mercilessly stops beeping. 

“I hate you,” she says once she fastened her seat belt. 

“You love me,” he says, “and who knows, this might be” she says it with him “your sport.”

He grins and she sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Come on,” he says, “the hot trainer awaits.”

“He really wasn’t that hot,” She grumbles. 

“Yeah,” Curtis says, “whatever.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does not have a happy ending. But the story will... and I promise I'll try and update soon

“I cannot believe,” Oliver has to half yell over the loud music, “that I let you drag me out tonight. I have a new class tomorrow!”

“Please,” Tommy laughs, “it’s time you got back on the horse. You need to be out enjoying yourself to do that. And besides you can teach that class in your sleep.”

“Not the point,” Oliver says, “and exactly which horse are we talking about here?”

“And of the fine fillies you see before you,” Tommy said, gesturing at the dance floor and waggling his eyebrows. 

Oliver chokes back a laugh. 

“I really cannot believe you said that.”

“In hindsight neither can I,” Tommy admits, “but anyway, you and Laurel have been over for nearly a year. A year, Ollie. It’s time to get back out there.”

“I am out there,” Oliver says, “I’m just not, you know, out _there_.” He gestures at the dance floor and sips his drink. Despite his best efforts to stick to club soda Tommy has them on scotch. Good scotch too. It’s been a while since Oliver has drank good scotch - nearly a year in fact. 

Breaking away from his family’s business and money and setting up on his own has its perks - he chooses the hours and the classes he runs - but having money for good scotch isn’t one of them. He takes another sip for good measure, savouring the taste. 

He’s been so focussed on setting up FWG he hasn’t taken the time to just enjoy a drink, enjoy a moment in far too long. 

“But seriously buddy,” Tommy says, “I worry about you. These are your prime years.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve heard this speech before,” Oliver muses aloud, “oh maybe it’s because I have. ”Why are you letting her tie you down Ollie? Don’t you want to enjoy your prime years?“ Isn’t that what you said?”

Tommy shifts in his seat. He doesn’t meet Oliver’s eyes. 

“Yeah well,” he says, a hint of defensiveness entering his voice, “I didn’t expect you to break it off without warning and run off on some Into the Wild-esque journey. That’s not what I meant by enjoying your youth.”

“I’m nearly 30, Tommy,” Oliver says, trying to ignore his friend’s tone. “I don’t want to just enjoy my youth anymore. I want my life to have meaning.”

“And marrying Laurel wasn’t meaningful enough?”

“Honestly,” Oliver says, “no. I don’t want someone else to add meaning to my life. I want to do that myself.”

Tommy ponders that, staring at the scotch in his glass. 

Eventually he looks up at Oliver. 

“And is that meaning entirely devoid of sexual activity?”

“No,” Oliver relies. “Or at least, yes, it is currently. But it doesn’t have to be.”

“Okay then,” Tommy perks up and slaps Oliver’s shoulder. He looks out over the crowd. “How about a little something in blonde?”

“I came here to spend time with you Tommy,” Oliver says, “not some random woman.”

“You can do both,” Tommy says and signals for the waitress to bring them another round of drinks. 

* * *

Oliver wakes up - alone - when the sun rises. It’s a habit he picked up during his time away from Starling and it’s fine for now, it’s still Summer and the sun rises early enough for him to make all his classes and private appointments, but he worries how he’ll cope in Winter. He hates alarm clocks and doesn’t want to rely on one. It feels anathema to all the life lessons he had to learn. 

He wonders, as he often does in the mornings, whether he shouldn’t just give it all up and go back to the island. Choose exile. 

But something keeps him in Starling. He’s not sure what. Thea maybe, with all of the issues she trying desperately to find her way through. Tommy perhaps. Even Laurel, in her way, has a hold on him here. He broke her heart when he left her, and he needs to carry that guilt. 

He had to take the time to work things through in his head but he also had to come back and face his demons. And now that he’s back he can’t seem to bring himself to leave again, even though he wants to. He really wants to. 

But you don’t always get what you want Oliver, he tells himself. Life’s not like that. 

He rolls out of bed and immediately feels woozy. 

Ah, that will be the hangover then. Oliver takes a second to centre himself then heads for the shower. He’ll spend most of the day getting sweaty but the one thing he truly missed about civilisation was hot showers and he likes to start the day clean. 

He has more than enough sins that don’t wash off, might as well get rid of the ones that do. 

Plus it helps with the pounding in his head. 

He tells himself the headache is temporary. 

He ended up drinking far more than he intended to the night before - all the alcohol tolerance he built up over years having been lost in his time away and the year of quiet living since he got back. 

Tommy has always pushed at Oliver’s limits and until recently he would have been able to shrug it off. 

Now his head pounds. The sunshine - normally so welcome - hurts his eyes. 

He find an old pair of sunglasses in a drawer and puts them on. He’s not a designer sunglasses sort of person, not anymore, but they’re the only pair he has available. They’ll do. 

He shares a storage locker near the park with John Diggle who runs the bootcamp sessions. They don’t see much crossover between their client sets so have become good acquaintances, at least. Oliver recognises the calmness Diggle carries with him - outside of the sessions he spends bellowing like a drill sergeant at bankers and lawyers - as the potential mark of a kindred spirit, but has been reluctant to try to push to useful alliance into friendship. 

The risk of it backfiring is just too strong. 

Still the storage locker means he doesn’t have to carry much gear with him, and so he’s able to grab the small backpack he keeps by the door and head out without any more fuss. 

Outside the sun is even brighter and Oliver feels himself scowl behind the glasses. 

You did this to yourself, he thinks, own the consequences. 

And, taking a swig of water from the bottle in his hand, he sets off on the 2 mile jog to the Glades. 

* * *

He runs his classes in 12 week sessions and the first taste is free. Today the 10am class is a free session, the 8am and 9am attendees have been at this for a while - he doesn’t have to explain the routine, just guide them through it and keep them motivated. 

But the 10am class is new - and because it’s free it’s generally pretty busy. 

Oliver really isn’t in the mood to deal with new people today. 

The headache he thought would be gone is pounding inside his temple and he’s already emptied his water bottle twice. Skipping breakfast is a bad habit, but he couldn’t face the kale smoothie he normally buys from the health food truck from the gate. It just smelled _wrong_.

So his head pounds and his mouth is dry and he’s feeling more than a little nauseous when he hears someone yell his name. 

“Oliver!”

Oliver turns to see a tall black man with an Afro towing a shorter blonde woman wearing glasses across the grass. He’s literally towing her, one hand ok her arm and it’s not like she’s fighting to get away but she clearly doesn’t want to be here. 

She’s scowling. 

Something about the expression triggers his memory.

Oh yeah, the hot yoga girl. 

And her friend. Carl? Chris?

Curtis. 

“Hey Curtis,” Oliver says holding out a hand to shake. “Glad you could make it.” He pastes a smile on his features that he hopes doesn’t look too fake. 

“Oh we wouldn’t miss this,” Curtis says, grinning. “Would we Felicity?”

“You don’t look quite so enthused,” Oliver says to Felicity. 

The scowl deepens. 

“I’m not,” she says, “this is my Saturday. _My_ Saturday. I have better things to do than burpees in a park.”

Oliver is a little taken aback by her vehemence. He can feel his hackles rising.

“Hey,” he says, trying to maintain his dealing with the public pleasantness. “If you don’t want to be here, I won’t be upset if you go.” He tried to aim for supportive but even he can hear an edge of frustration crept in there. 

“I mean,” he tries again, “this is the free taster session so there’s going to loads of people. But no one’s paying so… I don’t mind if you go.”

“No,” Curtis says firmly, “she’s staying. You will not believe the level of technological wizardry and awesome good luck I had to employ to get her here. She’s here and she’s staying.”

Felicity shoots him a glare. 

Oliver holds up both hands and steps back. 

“Hey,” he says, “I’m just the trainer here. I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever this is.”

“There is no this,” Felicity snaps, then abruptly turns on her heel. “I’m getting water,” she yells over her shoulder and storms off to the public water fountain beside the path. 

Oliver eyes Curtis. 

“Charming friend you have there.”

“She’s never at her best before coffee,” Curtis replies. “She’ll be fine.”

“Right,” Oliver says. “So I should, er, go set up.”

“Right,” Curtis says. “So where do I put out bags?”

“By the tree,” Oliver says. Then something else occurs to him. “Were you really an Olympian?” He vaguely recalls Felicity making a reference to that the first time they met. 

“Yeah,” Curtis says. “Decathlon. I took bronze in Beijing.”

“Why are you here man?” Oliver says. “I can’t imagine any of this is new to you.”

“She needed to get out of the house,” Curtis says. “It’s a long story.”

Oliver looks over to where Felicity is, in a way he never quite thought was possible, drinking water _angrily_.

“Your funeral,” he says and goes to get the registration clipboard for the class. 

* * *

It goes terribly. 

Some of it, Oliver is sure, is just the usual first class mishaps. It’s a new group, these are new exercises, it’s unfamiliar and perhaps even a little scary. 

But the rest of it is Felicity’s fault. 

She huffs and moans and whines and clearly _does not want to be here._. She projects her dislike and discomfort so loudly that even the people who began enthused about the class start to shuffle their feet and look around awkwardly. 

It’s as if she’s infected the class with her displeasure and he finds it incredibly irritating. Annoying even. 

Curtis tries to lighten the mood but his observations and jokes fall on dead ears. 

Oliver knows he has to do something or none of these people will ever sign up for the paid course. He can’t afford to lose an entire group. 

It runs through his head as he explains the next exercise. It’s not complicated, but he needs to explain it properly or someone could hurt themselves. 

“This is a variation on a standard push-up,” he says

And she huffs. Lets out her breath in an angry unimpressed noise. Again. 

And he’s done.

“Is there a problem?” He asks trying to keep his tone neutral. 

Felicity starts. 

He raises an eyebrow at her. 

“No,” she says. “No problem.”

“It seems like there’s a problem,” he says. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“…No.”

“Do you want to sit this one out?” He offers. 

“No, no,” she says, starting to look a little embarrassed. “I’ll do push-ups. Push-ups! Yay!”

And so they do push ups. 

She doesn’t say anything about the next exercise - no huffs, moans or groans - but he can’t stop waiting for it. It puts him on edge. 

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands and injecting some forced joviality into his voice. “We’re going to try a variation on squat thrusts.”

His gaze, whether he intends it to or not lands on Felicity. 

She looks quizzical. 

He demonstrates the exercise, dropping to a squat, thrusting his legs back so he’s in a push up position and jumping back to his feet. 

“We’ll start with a set of ten,” he says then notices Felicity has a hand in the air. “Yes?”

“That’s a burpee,” she says. 

“It’s a variation,” he starts. 

“On a burpee,” she interrupts him. “You promised no burpees.”

He vaguely recalls something of the sort - and truthfully he doesn’t normally bring this exercise in during the first session - but he’s tired and hungover and she is getting on his last nerve. 

“I did no such thing,” he says, and turns away from her. “Come on everyone, we’ll try one slowly. Stand with your feet shoulder width apart-”

“I’m _not_ doing burpees,” she folds her arms and glares at him. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” he says, and turns back to the rest of the group. “Feet shoulder width apart-”

“You lied to me,” she says.

“Alright,” he says and stalks over to her. He gets in close and then says in a low voice. “If you’re not going to follow instructions you should leave.”

“What?”

“Leave. You’ve been nothing but disruptive. Other people came here to try a new class, not to listen to you bitch and whine. I want you to leave.”

She stares at him for a second, seemingly not getting it. 

“Leave Felicity,” he says and he doesn’t care if his voice sounds angry, he just wants her gone. 

“You lied about the burpees,” she says. 

“It’s my class,” he replies, “I can teach it however I want.”

“You fucking liar,” she says. “I wish I had never come here.”

“That makes two of us,” he says. “Now leave.”

He turns his back and walks back to the rest of the class. 

“Feet shoulder width apart,” he says. 

He doesn’t watch her go. And when Curtis sends him a confused look before chasing after Felicity, he doesn’t let it bother him. 

He’s got a class to teach. And he’ll teach it his way, irritating blondes be dammed. 


	5. Chapter 5

She’s never at her best before coffee. 

She knows this. Curtis knows this. Hell, their team, the team that sits at the next bank of desks and half the staff of Jitters know this. Before Iris became Iris she was the girl at Jitters who wasn’t afraid of Felicity. 

And as Felicity has never liked the idea that pre-coffee her could be that off-putting she put real effort into getting to know the girl at Jitters who wasn’t afraid. And now she has a good friend in Iris. 

But she’s getting off the point. The point is she’s never at her best before coffee and she’s still pissed as hell about Curtis managing to circumvent the security on her phone. He’s an engineer, she’s the coder - how the hell did he do that anyway?

So there’s no coffee and now there’s exercise and even if she wanted to ogle the hot trainer she can’t because he’s wearing sunglasses and has his arms crossed and is projecting “I am not having a good day” so loudly that he might as well be yelling. 

She remembers him being kind. Being patient. 

Admittedly their first meeting was a limited interaction but every time he explains an exercise he looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. He doesn’t seem like himself. 

The class attendees are clearly picking up on this - shuffling their feet, wrapping their arms around themselves. 

He has _such_ an attitude. 

She can’t believe how obvious he’s making the fact that he doesn’t care about this class. He keeps getting names wrong. He’s called someone called Jack Joe like three times. And every time Jack corrects him and Oliver nods and calls him Joe again. 

It’s unprofessional. 

And completely not what she expected. 

“This is a variation on a standard push-up,” he says. His tone is flat, his voice unengaging. She can’t believe how he is throwing away his chance here. She knows he can be better than this. This is such a waste.

“Is there a problem?” He surprises her by asking. 

He raises an eyebrow at her, but as it’s half hidden behind the oversized designer sunglasses he’s wearing it just makes him look like a douche. 

“No,” she says. “No problem.”

“It seems like there’s a problem,” he says. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Well she could do with coffee but apart from that she’s fine. She’s not the one whose ruining her own livelihood. 

“…No.”

“Do you want to sit this one out?” He offers. 

“No, no,” she says. She needs to get this back on track, get through the rest of the class. Maybe she can get Curtis to charm a few people into signing up despite his attitude. Everyone has a bad day. 

She tries for enthusiasm, hoping to lift the spirits of the group. “I’ll do push-ups. Push-ups! Yay!”

She feels like things pick up for a while - or at least as much as they can whilst doing push ups - but then it happens. 

“We’re going to try a variation on squat thrusts.”

What?

She looks up and finds him looking straight at her. She meets his eyes, confused.

Aren’t squat thrusts burpees?

And, he promised, no burpees?

She watches as Oliver demonstrates something that is definitely, absolutely, no wiggle room, a burpee. 

And no, that will not do. You don’t promise something to get people through the door and then _break your promise_ in the very first session. 

“We’ll start with a set of ten,” he says then notices Felicity has a hand in the air. “Yes?”

“That’s a burpee,” she says. 

“It’s a variation,” he starts. 

“On a burpee,” she interrupts him. “You promised no burpees.”

Oliver looks at her blankly. 

He looks so different to the man she met at the gym. The man who helped her to a bench, who asked if she was okay. 

The guy standing in front of her is walled off and sharp. He’s hidden behind sunglasses and instructions. He’s not connecting with people.

And he lied. 

“I did no such thing,” he lies again  
And she sees red. 

Oliver is ignoring her, trying to lead the group into an exercise he specifically told her they would not do.

If he’ll lie about this, what else will he lie about?

Just what kind of person is he?

“I’m _not_ doing burpees,” she folds her arms and glares at him. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” he says, and turns back to the rest of the group. “Feet shoulder width apart-”

He’s ignoring her. Ignoring her incredibly correct point. It’s like Cooper all over again - being lied to, being belittled. 

“You lied to me,” she says, and is almost surprised to hear the words coming out of her mouth. 

Oliver looks at her and clearly grinds his teeth. 

“Alright,” he says and stalks over to her. He stops far too close to her - he’s trying to intimidate her with his height and bulk and no, she won’t have that. He’s leans on and says in a low angry voice. “If you’re not going to follow instructions you should leave.” 

Felicity is stunned. Doesn’t he realise what he’s doing? Lying is the worst way to start a relationship and signing up for a class is starting a relationship. You don’t want spend time every week with someone you can’t trust. 

“What?”

“Leave. You’ve been nothing but disruptive. Other people came here to try a new class, not to listen to you bitch and whine. I want you to leave.”

She doesn’t understand. This isn’t about her. He’s the one who needs to make an attitude adjustment. 

“Leave Felicity,” he says, his voice flat. As if even now he really doesn’t care. 

“You lied about the burpees,” she says. 

“It’s my class,” he replies, “I can teach it however I want.”

“You fucking liar,” she says. “I wish I had never come here.”

“That makes two of us,” he says. “Now leave.”

He turns his back and walks back to the rest of the class. 

“Feet shoulder width apart,” he says. 

She feels tears pricking at her eyes and she will not let this douchbag see her cry. And so if, as she walks away, she’s almost running, that’s because she needs the exercise, alright, and nothing to do with the tears in her eyes. 

She manages to make it a couple of hundred feet before a stitch in her side forces her to slow to a walk. 

She swipes at her eyes with her fingertips, willing the tears away and then she takes a deep breath and holds it. 

“What just happened?” Curtis said, appearing beside her out of nowhere.

“You didn’t see?”

“I saw,” he replies, eyeing her. “I can’t say I understood what I saw.”

“What’s to understand,” Felicity wipes at her face. “He’s a douche. A lying douche.”

“I won’t say he was all Prince Charming back there,” Curtis offers. “But I’m not sure I’d call him a douche.”

“He lied about the burpees,” she insists, but even to her own ears it sounds like whining. 

“He might have just forgotten,” Curtis says. “He’s gotta teach what, twenty or thirty classes a week. Hard to keep track of what he’s said to all of them.”

“Stop being reasonable,” she says. 

“When you stop being irrational,” he replies, but he softens the demand with a smile. “Look why don’t we go and get coffee and you can tell me what the hell was just going through your head. Alright?”

“You think it’s all my fault?” She asks in a small voice. 

“I think there is blame on both sides,” he says, “but because I’m your friend, I’m on your side.”

“Promise?” She’s ashamed to say she snuffles. 

“Promise,” Curtis reassures her. “Come on,” he adds, “Jitters awaits.”

* * *

Iris isn’t working the machine today but Felicity spots her little brother Wally bussing tables as they enter Jitters. He’s in college full time so often works the weekend shifts. 

He waves and she returns it, but she’s reached her limit for pre-coffee socialisation so heads straight to the counter. 

“Triple shot skinny latte,” she requests. “And a caramel machiatto.”

Curtis waves at her from where he has found a table and she nods an acknowledgement. 

She takes her time carrying the drinks over. 

“You ready to talk about it?” Curtis asks. 

“No,” she says, offering him his drink. “But we’re going to anyway.”

“Damn right,” Curtis replies. 

“He had an attitude,” she says. 

“Uh huh,” Curtis nods, “go on.”

“He was just sabotaging himself,” she says, “he couldn’t even get people’s names right.”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean, why would you do that? Why would you be so dismissive of people who might pay you to train them? Why be mean?”

“Mean,” Curtis says neutrally. 

“Why lie about not promising burpees?” She hears her own voice rising in volume but seems unable to control it. “Why lie? Liars lie. He didn’t seem like a liar and then he was and lies hurt and lies are bad and why would you lie?!?”

She realises she is leaning forward over the table, gesturing wildly. 

Curtis is unbothered. He remains a picture of calm. 

Felicity is breathing hard - harder than she was during exercise. Tears are pricking at her eyes and she can feel her heart rate pounding. 

Curtis takes a sip of his machiatto as she leans back, trying to gather what remains of her dignity about herself. 

“What did Cooper lie about?” Curtis asks suddenly.

“What? Nothing. I don’t know,” she says. “We’re not talking about Cooper.”

“Are you sure?” Curtis asks. 

“Yes,” she insists. “Today was nothing to do with Cooper, today was about a mean gym bunny with an attitude.”

“Okay,” Curtis says. He puts down his coffee and leans over to take her hand. “I want you to know that I say this with love and that even though you clearly need to talk about what happened with Cooper, I am not going to press you.”

“Curtis-”

“Wait,” he says, “I’m not done yet.”

She closes her mouth and waits for him to speak. 

“He hurt you,” Curtis says, “and you’re still not thinking clearly as a result of it. You’re not at your best right now. And that guy today, Oliver the gym bunny, he clearly for whatever unknown reason was also not at his best today.”

Felicity takes a breath. She makes herself listen. She doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to think about Cooper or his lies or any part of it, but when Curtis does calm adult voice she’s learned it’s worth listening to.

“But you are not blameless in what happened today. I don’t know what was going through your head that you decided you knew better than the fitness professional we asked to teach us about fitness, but aside from a bad memory for names and a bit of a pretty boy attitude, he didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He lied about the burpees,” she says, but even to her own ears it feels like whining. 

“Maybe,” Curtis acknowledges, “or maybe he forgot. Are burpees really that important?”

“No,” she admits. 

“Okay then,” he says. 

“They are horrible though.”

“Yes they are.”

“You’re not going to make me go back there and apologise,” she asks, “are you?”

“What am I,” he replies, “your mother?”

Felicity mentally imagines a blond wig on his head and can’t help but smile. 

“That’s better,” he says, “and you know, some good has come out of today. We now know that aerobics in the park is clearly not your sport.”

“Aerobics?” Another voice asks. 

Felicity looks up to see Wally standing nearby. 

“You we’re doing aerobics?” He asks. “In the park?”

“Yes,” Curtis says, at the same time as Felicity admits, “It didn’t go well.”

“I like running,” Wally says apropos of nothing. “I’ve got an app and everything.”

“Running?” Felicity says, surprised. “Iris is always saying how busy you are. Where do you find the time?”

Wally snorts. 

“That’s the good thing about running,” he says, “there’s no opening hours or gym schedules. So long as you’ve got a pair of sneakers, you’re gold.”

“Running,” Curtis says, thoughtfully. 

“No,” Felicity says, aiming a finger at Curtis. “I need you to back off about this _your sport_ thing.”

“Hey, hey,” Curtis says raising his hands in mock surrender. “I was just saying.”

“Right,” Felicity says. She turns to ask Wally how Iris is, but he’s already on the other side of the room, bussing a different table. 

“Iris said he moved fast,” she comments. “I guess she was talking about all the running.”

“Maybe,” Curtis says. “Hey, how do you feel about brunch?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve burpees,” she replies. “I’m in.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update this time, sorry! Oliver only had a limited amount to say in his POV

“No one signed up?” Tommys forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“Yeah,” Oliver said. “No one. Not one.”

“That’s… unusual, right?” Tommy asks.

“Never happened before.”

“So…” Tommy says, “what did you do?”

Oliver scowls.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, “I knew it, you fucked up. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Even to his own ears Oliver sounds defensive. 

“Right buddy,” Tommy says, “and denial is just a river in Egypt. ’Fess up.”

Oliver groans and drops his head down, pressing his forehead into the metal surface of the table. They’re in Tommy’s apartment, waiting for delivery (Tommy’s treat), as has become their Sunday evening habit since Oliver came home, refused his inheritance and Tommy started fussing about him eating properly.

“I may have made someone cry.” He mumbles into the tabletop.

“You what now?”

Oliver lifts his head. He did it, he should own it. 

“I may,” he repeats, “have made someone cry.”

Tommy blinks.

“Were there burpees?” He asks.

“Funny you should say that,” Oliver says and Tommy groans.

“Seriously Oliver? Burpees in a first class is like garlic bread on a first date. Don’t do it. Just don’t.”

“In my defence,” Oliver says, glaring at him, “I wasn’t at my non-hungover best.”

“You said you could teach that class in your sleep!”

“I can!”

“Well apparently not well enough to remember that burpees never go over well.”

Oliver snorts.

“That’s what she said.”

Tommy chuckles, then pauses.

“Hold on, how was that funny?”

“It wasn’t,” Oliver explains, “it’s literally what she said, a girl in the class.”

“The one you made cry,” Tommy says perceptively.

“Yes, the one I made cry.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. 

“She was pissed,” Oliver says, “she clearly didn’t want to be there. Huffing after every exercise, no matter what. She was disruptive.”

“I see,” Tommy eyes him. “And what did you do?”

“I kicked her out.”

“And she cried.”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, “now I see.”

“Now you see what?”

“You had your grouch on,” Tommy says and Oliver bristles. “No, no, don’t argue, you know what you are like when you’ve not had your beauty sleep-”

“And whose fault is that?”

“I take only the merest amount of blame,” Tommy says, “you’re a grown man.”

Oliver huffs. 

“A grown man,” Tommy goes on to say, “who made some poor little pretty thing cry by making her do burpees. Little wonder no one signed up for your course. No one wants to work out with the monster that makes people cry. Unless that’s how they get their kicks and that’s a slim proportion of the population.” 

Oliver wants to argue, wants to say he’s not the monster, not at fault here, but he can hear the truth in Tommy’s words.

“I-” he starts. “I didn’t mean - dammit. You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Tommy says, “it’s a curse.”

“Fuck,” Oliver swears. He’s a professional. He should have been able to keep his calm, win her over. And in winning her over, win over the class. 

Fuck. 

He takes a deep breath, thinking.

“Run another taster in two weeks,” Tommy says, “all new people.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I need to. I’m barely scraping by as it is.”

“If this is about money,” Tommy starts.

“No,” Oliver says, “I make it on my own. I don’t want your money.”

“But you’ll drink my beer and eat my food,” Tommy cocks an eyebrow. 

“Damn right,” Oliver smiles, but he feels the expression falter on his face.

“What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to run another taster session,” Tommy says, “right?”

“No,” Oliver says, “what am I going to do about her? Felicity?”

“Crying girl has a name?”

“They always have names Tommy.”

“Yeah but you don’t often care enough to learn them.”

Oliver sends Tommy an unimpressed look.

“That’s the old me,” he says.

“Right,” Tommy agrees but Oliver can see the skepticism in his eyes. 

And Tommy’s right to be sceptical, Oliver knows. The old version of him was a dick. A serial cheater who was as likely to sleep with his female clients as he was to train them. In fact at least once he joked that a particularly vigorous session should be counted as work time and - he winced to remember - the woman in question had agreed and offered to pay him. 

Ugh. Amazing how a few years of clarity could change a person. Just thinking about it now makes him queasy. 

In his defence he hadn’t taken the money. 

But that wasn’t really much of a defence. 

“Hey, hey,” Tommy snaps his fingers in front of Oliver’s face. “Earth to Ollie.”

“I’m here,” Oliver says, batting Tommy’s fingers away. 

Tommy sits back and considers him. He takes a sip of his beer.

“Oh I get it,” he says suddenly, “you like this girl.”

“What? No.”

“Yeah, you do,” Tommy insists. “You fucked up the class dynamic and no one signed up but that’s not what’s bothering you. What’s bothering you is that you made her cry.”

“I needed those sign ups,” Oliver points out.

“Yeah, but nearly as much as you want to apologise to her.”

“What? No.”

“Say it again for th cheap seats,” Tommy smirked. “I can always see through you. You like her.”

Unbidden an image of Felicity comes into his mind. Pissed off and angry at the world as she had been this morning. On the edge of hot yoga induced collapse as she had been when he met her. He wonders idly what she looks like when she smiles. 

Fuck. 

He doesn’t need this right now. 

“I don’t like her,” he insists. “I just feel like I should apologise. I wasn’t at my best and I took that out on her.”

“Well when you apologise make sure you bring flowers and chocolate,” Tommy says. “That tends to make apologies far more fun.”

“Shut up,” Oliver replies. 

The buzzer sounds and Tommy goes off to collect the food. Oliver moves their beers over the couch and by the time Tommy’s back with the pizza the game is about to start and the topic of conversation changes. 

But even as he watches he can’t help but remember how Felicity looked as she tried not to cry. 

The guilt he feels is like a rock in his stomach. 

He’s got to find a way to make this right. 

But how?


	7. Chapter 7

Felicity eyes herself in the mirror. The dress looks good - dark blue and with a high-ish neckline and a flared skirt. She's wearing medium heels that are smart rather than fashionable and has her hair up with fresh, natural looking make up. 

It is, she thinks, the exact outfit she might wear to a "meet the parents" type dinner rather than a date. And that would fit right? Meeting your new client is like meeting your boyfriend's parents. You want to impress them, wow them even. 

You want to be thought of as daughter in law material. 

Or good supplier material. 

She shakes her head, discarding the thought. She took a metaphor too far again. 

She smoothes her hands down the dress - the material is gorgeous, and picks up her summer weight dressy coat (zebra print and she debated about not wearing it but thought in the end that if Walter Steele wants to get the measure of her as a person she should actually show some of her personality) and silver clutch bag from the bed. 

Her smart phone chirps and she glances at the screen to see that the cab she booked is arriving. 

She could drive - she's not planning on drinking much - but why give herself the stress of parking? She considers if she should power pose - standing like Wonder Woman is proven to increase confidence - but then the cabbie beeps his horn and she has to hurry out. Her upstairs neighbours hate car horns - she gets passive aggressive notes even though what the most drivers do on the street is nothing to do with her. 

She rushes out of her apartment and down the steps, a whirlwind of activity. And so it's only when she's sitting in the backseat, heading to her destination, that it hits her what a _big thing_ this is. This could be the start of what turns her job into a career. 

A career. 

She's had opportunities before - there was the Boston company that wanted to promote her - but she'd always put Cooper first. Turning down this promotion because he wanted to move to Starling, or that project because he complained that the hours meant she'd never see him. 

Now she's got the opportunity to succeed and there's no Cooper to hold her back. She can do this entirely on her own terms. 

It takes her a minute to realise she's grinning like a fool. 

"Big date?" The driver asks. 

"No," she replies, still smiling. "Something better." 

He sniffs, obviously not understanding her delight, but she doesn't care. This is the start of something, she can feel it. 

* * *

Felicity likes Walter Steele immediately. He's older and British and elegant and not unlike a darker-skinned version of Giles from Buffy, who she had a total never admitted crush on in her teens. He's not wearing tweed but you could see he could if he wanted to. 

Walter - he insists on first name terms immediately and unlike other clients he makes it seem friendly and not creepy at all - is also full of amazing stories. He's been in the US for over 20 years but his British accent is still present. 

She remarks on that and he grins. 

"Well," he says, "I was taught as a younger man to use every opportunity I had." He leans in, "When I first arrived on this side of the pond it became clear that the accent was an advantage. It flustered some of your countrymen so very much." He shrugs. "It took conscious effort, but I decided to keep it." 

"Was it hard? To keep it?" 

Ray's off in the bathroom and despite Felicity's plans she's enjoying both a second glass of wine and Walter's company. 

"Between you and I," Walter says, eyes merry, "it was more a case of learning it. My childhood accent is a little... courser than this." 

Felicity laughs, delighted. 

"And how about yourself?" Walter asks, "where do you hail from?" 

Felicity considers lying - for half a second - but decides to go with the truth. 

"Vegas," she admits and his eyebrows rise. "Yes, that Vegas. I don't talk about it much." 

"Ah," Walter says, "I see. One might assume you are proficient in games of chance? Or related to some unsavoury characters?" 

"One might," she acknowledges, "and one often does." She pauses. "Did I say that right?" 

"I understood your point," Walter reassure her. "I too am the victim of stereotypes and assumptions. For a start I cannot abide tea, and yet what does everyone serve me?" 

Felicity smiles. 

"One does not come to the west coast if one does not prefer coffee?" She tries, making an attempt at his accent. 

"Quite," Walter says. "Occasionally I have my assistant serve it out of a tea pot. One must keep up appearances." He smiles. "After all, if they are looking at who they think you are, it's a lot easier to sneak things past them." 

Felicity laughs again - she never imagined she would laugh so much at a work dinner. 

Ray slides back into his seat. 

"What did I miss?" He asks. 

"Just the discovery of a few things in common," Walter says smoothly. "Now tell me Ray, what drives you?" 

Ray blinks, then launches into a description of how seeing Star Wars as a kid led him to working in the sciences. 

"I've always wanted to take the time," he says after eight straight minutes of waxing lyrical about the Extended Universe, "and actually get my PhD. Doctor Ray Palmer has such a nice ring to it, don't you think?" 

Felicity has heard the Star Wars story before, but never his desire for a doctorate. This changes her reaction to it. This time it's not Ray trying to win someone over with geek cred. This time Ray seems to be sharing a hidden desire. Something he's always wanted. 

She looks at Ray anew, re-evaluating some of her assumptions. 

"I agree," Walter says, "Doctor Ray Palmer would be an excellent title. Perhaps your employer might co-sponsor such an endeavour?" 

Ray blinks. 

"You think?" 

"If it's of value to the business," Walter says, "it is always worth the enquiry. After all, the worst they can say is no." 

Ray nods. 

"Prepare your business case well, Mr Palmer," Walter says. "I will happily read over it if you require a second pair of eyes." 

"Thank you," Ray says, seeming genuinely touched. "I'll think about that." 

"Do so," Walter nods. "And you, Miss Smoak, what is your secret dream?" 

Felicity freezes, put on the spot and suddenly left without a thought in her mind. 

"Ahhh," she tries, "I..." but nothing comes. 

Walter notices her discomfort. Of course he does, he's a gentleman. 

"I personally," he says, "have always wanted to run the original marathon in Greece. I enjoyed Murakami's book about running and it inspired me to take up the sport. Alas I am some distance from a marathon length expedition, but I have faith I will get there." 

"You run?" Ray asks, somewhat unnecessarily Felicity thinks. 

"I do," Walter says, "I only took up the practice about a year ago. My step son pointed me in the direction of a mobile application and I have found it both invigorating and inspiring." He pauses and fusses with his napkin for a second. "I also found," he adds in a slower more considered tone, "that running, even short distances at first, enabled me to have peace of mind." He looks at Felicity. "Your mind quiets when you run. I have found that immensely helpful during difficult times." 

He changes the subject after that, touching upon resourcing for the project and the bank's expectations. 

But Felicity's mind returns again and again to his final words about running. 

_Your mind quiets when you run._

_immensely helpful during difficult times_

_peace of mind_

She wants that, she realises. It's as if she has just realised an absence of something missing all her life. 

She wants that. 

The rest of the conversation is composed of equal parts small talk and work talk. 

But she catches Walter's arm when Ray steps away to pay the bill. 

"Which app?" She asks. "Which app did you learn to run with?" 

Walter smiles at her and holds out his hand. 

"Your phone, please?" 

She hands him her unlocked smart phone and he types a few commands into the screen, bringing up the app in question's download page. 

"This one," he says. "Start at the beginning and don't be afraid to repeat sessions. You may be surprised what you are capable of. Or how hard seemingly easy times actually are." 

"Thank you," she says, really meaning it. She can't say why - she's never enjoyed sport, her experiences with Curtis have only reinforced that. 

But 

_peace of mind_

That she craves. 

She presses her fingerprint into the scanner and sets the app to download. 

_your mind quiets_

Ray helps her into her jacket and they step out onto the street. There's a nip in the air. A cold breeze that makes her pull her jacket around her tighter. 

"I look forward to working with you, Felicity, Ray," Walter says. "I'll see you next week at our first status meeting. I look forward to hearing about your progress." 

Felicity can't help but feel he means more than their development, but then he's gone, striding confidently away into the night. 

Ray hails a cab for her and she lets him, the cold of the night air overruling her feminist instinct to let him go first. His coat looks warmer than hers - and he's in a suit while she's in a dress. He can brave the cold for a few more minutes. 

She settles into the backseat of the cab and examines the app. 

The first session involves only four individual minutes of running. That seems doable. 

She already owns running shoes. And sportswear forced on her by Curtis. 

Now with the app she has everything she needs. 

_peace of mind_

She falls asleep looking forward to exercise for the first time ever in her life. 


	8. Chapter 8

_*0600 Circuits?*_

The SMS is short to the point of rude but John Diggle isn't a man to waste words.

Oliver considers his reply. He has classes at 7am and 8am in the park, but no 6am session this week. And Diggle does run a good circuits course.

* _Ok*_ , he texts back.

There's no response, but then he wasn't expecting one.

It's late - almost too late now if he's getting up for a 6am circuits session - but he doesn't feel tired yet.

Or rather, he feels tired but not sleepy.

It's a definition he's come to recognise. He often feels tired - he always feels tired. But restful sleep eludes him.

It's not that he has nightmares, rather that in the dark he's visited by the ghosts of past misdeeds.

Cheating on Laurel with Sara.

Cheating on Laurel with...anyone really.

Laurel agreeing to marry him despite all his bad behaviour and how he let her down. He didn't quite leave her at the alter, but it was close.

It was close.

He had to get away, he needed the space to get his head straight but the manner in which he took that space.

That he could have done better.

Really it's not surprising that Laurel doesn't speak to him anymore. He doesn't blame her. Doesn't miss her either. But he regrets the things he did to her. 

Oliver sighs and pushes himself off of the second hand couch he found abandoned in the building's basement. It's patchy and threadbare - even smells a little on warm days - but it's comfy. And it was free. Better than the floor at any rate. Or the ground.

He didn't sleep at all the first few nights on the island - too many twigs or stones or uneven humps of ground digging into his back. He missed his bed - and the regular sports massages that being the son of the owner earned you. He’d thought about leaving. Calling the sat phone, saying this wilderness experience wasn't for him, going home. He had the phone in his hand, ready to dial, more than once.

But he never pressed send. At the time he thought he was serving his penance. That he deserved discomfort. But a year on that just feels like another sort of ego. A type of ego just as damaging as the false belief that because he could sleep with anyone, he should. That it didn't matter. That Laurel wouldn't find out.

Oliver shivers involuntarily. Everything matters.

He lays down on his bed and stares at the ceiling. It's not quite dark outside but it will be soon. Beams of coloured light from the sunset play across the white paint.

Is he on track? He asks himself. Is this still what he wants to do?

Generally he returns to the island for these moments of self-reflection, the isolation granting him deeper insights.

Tonight he reaches out, steadies his breathing and tries to find the place of calm that so often eludes him in the city.

Is this what I should be doing?

He thinks of his classes and feels a sense of pride. Watching his students transform themselves into healthier people gives him a sense of accomplishment, of giving back. Teaching people that fitness is not just about looking good but feeling good - he doesn't teach classes that will give you a six pack and never will. That moment when a person discovers that they can get to the end of a class and be out of breath but still okay, that realisation that they couldn't have done all that a year ago.

That's why he teaches the classes. But they don't all work out.

He thinks of the blonde - Felicity - and feels guilt. He can do better than that. He will do better than that. It's not right that she ran from class - it's his fault.

He needs to make amends. But how? Thoughts of Laurel rise up unbidden. Another person he needs to make amends to. When he broke off their engagement and went to the island he genuinely thought he was doing what was best for both of them. He thought taking the time would resolve his doubts, make him want to get married, be her husband. Get him over his fear of commitment.

It didn't work out like that.

Instead it brought his relationship with Laurel into sharp focus. He didn't love Laurel - half the time he couldn't even say he was fond of her. She was just there - part of this life for such a long time she'd become furniture. He liked her, sure, and there was some passion and affection, but the most prominent emotion in their relationship?

Duty. And guilt.

Mostly he was happiest when he found an excuse to not spend time with Laurel - citing clients, classes and other business related activities as often as he could. He couldn't marry someone he didn't want to spend time with. Marriage was for life. And what sort of life would that be?

Oliver shakes his head, trying to prevent a trip down the same guilt ridden track. His relationship with Laurel wasn't perfect, but ending it hadn't been easy either.

He needs to make amends. To the blonde. Felicity. Not Laurel.

Not anymore.

He stares at the ceiling and ponders what to do. He doesn't know Felicity. Not really. So what does it matter that he upset her? It doesn't. Not really.

But... He wants to do better, be better.

Maybe tomorrow he should check his class records. See if he could offer her another trial - no burpees this time. Win her over to his course.

That could work.

Satisfied with the beginnings of a plan, Oliver closes his eyes. Circuits can't come soon enough.

*****

He jogs to the park, sunglasses on to block the glare of the low sun. It’s 5:30 in the morning and the streets are mostly empty - it’s a Sunday morning and the Saturday night revellers have already found their ways home and are hiding their hangovers beneath bedsheets. Office workers are probably having a much deserved lie in, while the few people with jobs that care not for the day of the week hurry past in cars and buses, seemingly resentful of their early wake up.

Come 7am the park will be busy with early runners, but few are out at 5:30 - the odd dog walker with a determined poodle is more likely. So he’s surprised to see a blonde stretching her hamstring on a bench when he enters the park gate.

For the most part he ignores other runners - he doesn’t like to be bothered and he assumes the same of others - but something about her catches his eye.

Maybe it’s the ponytail. Or the glasses. Or the hugely baggy sweatshirt over leggings.

But he instead of turning left as he intended - left to Diggle and circuits - he moves right. He can’t quite say why, just that it feels right.

She doesn’t look up as he approaches but the closer he gets the more he realises it is her.

The blonde from the disasterous class.

Felicity.

Oliver slows his pace. Should he stop? Should he say something?

Should he apologise?

But he doesn’t get the chance.

Without any sign she’s seen him she pushes back from the bench, secures headphones in her ears and walks away.

Oliver is torn.

Should he?

“Queen!” he hears from behind him. Turning, he sees John Diggle, hand raised in greeting. Oliver casts a glance back at Felicity, but she hasn’t looked back and is in fact, speeding up, moving into a slow jog.

Oliver abandons his idea of reconciliation, of finding the right words, and makes his way over to Diggle.

For circuits. That’s why he’s here, after all.

Circuits.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm writing again. My first non-superhero AU. I really hope you all like it


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